Artist in the Ambulance
by Lapse in Judgment
Summary: An old sonfic I wrote a while back and forgot about. It's Au, it's dark, and it's hard to summerise, but I think it turned out well. Sort of Ichiruki. Please give it a look and some feed back.


**Ok, to be honest, I'm not sure why I'm re-uploading this thing. I'm really not. Anyway, I am personally quite proud of how this turned out, even though it is angsty and dark and I'm not quite sure why I write such depressing stuff. This is an AU and my first Bleach story. After this, my updates will probably be even fewer and more far between. I'll try to finish the Five Thousand Dollar Disaster, but I"m not sure if I will. Please review and tell me how I did.**

* * *

There was no crash. There was no crunch. There wasn't actually ANY sound as it hit his body. Maybe _that _was what they heard, the absence of anything. His body made no noise as it crumpled, twisted, and slid to the concrete bellow. Orange and blood and black and cloth mixed, twisted, and meshed as he lay there. Of all the things to strike him down.

_Late night, brakes lock, hear the tires squeal  
Red light, can't stop so I spin the wheel_

But there was noise aplenty, now. Too much of it, in fact. People screaming, sobbing, cell phones whipped out and numbers dialed. The sound of a failing body, the taste of a life fading away. So acrid. So bitter.

_My world goes black before I feel an angel lift me up  
and I open bloodshot eyes into fluorescent white  
they flip the siren, hit the lights, close the doors and I am gone_

No one wanted to see it. Really, they were calling for it to be taken away. Death was ugly. And those who were in the process of becoming Death were even worse. They were filthy, awful, inhuman creatures. Take it away, put it back together again. Make it look like all of us, or at least put it out of its misery. They didn't want to see him.

_Now I lay here owing my life to a stranger  
and I realize that empty words are not enough_

And he lay there. There was nothing he could do, really. A small smile played weakly across his emaciated lips. He was smiling, after all of that. How could he be smiling? How could he be smiling, when he should be, no, MUST be, in so much pain. The orange haired boy is smiling because he knows the face of Death, and cannot wait to see her.

_I'm left here with the question of just  
what have I to show except the promises I never kept.  
I lie here shaking on this bed, under the weight of my regrets_

He doesn't seem to notice as his blood slips from him, mixing with the pavement. Little drops of life, slipping away. It didn't seem to bother him that his bones were crushed, or that his life is trickling away down the sewer, just like the rain he hates so much.

_Look around and you'll see that at times it feels like no one really cares  
It gets me down but I'm still gonna try to do what's right_

More noise now. Jerks, he thinks. Can't they just let him be? The bark of sirens, the squawk of bellowed orders. Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? Someone bends down, positioning his head and shining lights in his eyes. Won't they leave him alone?

_I know that there's  
A difference between sleight of hand, and giving everything you have  
There's a line drawn in the sand, I'm working up the will to cross it_

Voices enter the fray, now, attempting to compete with all the other noise. Blurry apparitions floated in front of him, not really there. Flaming red, indigo, deep, soulful brown. All were hanging above him, talking in soft voices.

_Rhetoric can't raise the dead  
I'm sick of always talking when there's no change_

Live. Breathe. Swallow. Everything seemed like such a chore. Why couldn't they just leave him be? But they were familiar now, he knew the voices. Chad, Renji, he could even recognize the voices driving the car. Kenpachi and Yachiru. He smirked to himself. He hopped they had a navigator; neither of them could drive themselves out of a paper bag.

_Rhetoric can't raise the dead  
I'm sick of empty words, let's lead and not follow_

The voices were still arguing, but one sounded choked. Like he was hearing it through a cloth. He growled at his body, wanting it to respond to the voice, talk it, and make it stop worrying. Please, he begged to nothing, make it calm down.

_Late night, brakes lock, hear the tires squeal  
Red light, can't stop so I spin the wheel_

Finally, finally, the voices are quite, but only momentarily. A bang and he is rocketed into a world of misery, felling himself wind through the maze of despair, powered by steady feet. Another voice he recognised seemed to cringe when it saw him. Why couldn't they handle it? Just as he was about to force himself to articulate his anger, a soft bubble of warmth surrounded him, and dragged him off.

_My world goes black before I feel an angel steal me from the  
Greedy jaws of death and chance, and pull me in with steady hands_

Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. God, why couldn't the noise just leave him alone? A new feeling was in him, one of someone who was too far-gone to know what was happening. A massive effort was needed to pry apart his eyelids, and he wished he hadn't. Too much white in too small a room.

Amber eyes swept around and were immediately captured by the only thing with colour in the room. A small girl, (_woman he corrected himself_) in a black uniform, crumpled in a chair. Indigo hair masked most of her face, but he could see she had been crying. Oh God, he thought, feeling tears prick at his own eyes. Why did she have to be one of the ones who picked him up?

_They've given me a second chance, the artist in the ambulance_

_And I hope that I will never let you down_

Of all the squads that could've picked him up, why did it have to be hers? He sighed, contemplating reaching out. Instead, he cast a weary glance over his x-rays. The painted a gruesome tale.

To set the scene, it is cold, and the world is wearing a coat of rain, which it is constantly reapplying. There is a tall man, slouching through the picture, walking down the middle of the road like a thousand kinds of fools. A screech filters through the coating of rain, causing him too look up. It strikes him head on, this environment destroying beast. It hits his hips and forces him down, crushing his rib cage and smashing his chin as he descends. No, it is not pretty at all.

_I know that this can be more than just flashing lights and sound_

The woman stirs now, and his attention returns to her. She shifts uncomfortably, looking pained. She is probably over tired, he thinks; she was never really cut out for the job, but she took it anyway. Large storm clouds hang under her eyes, aging her in a way that bypassed time. There is nothing he can do. A tube is down his throat, silencing him. Apparently they didn't want him to add to their masterpiece of misery.

_Can we pick you off the ground?_

So he lies there, watching her sleep, attempting to apologise, without being able to wake her. No more noise was to be made for the little artist who doodled in the back of her ambulance. All he could do was lie there, waiting for Them to decree him healed enough to be ripped apart by the Artist, whom would yell about safety and call him a baka, and shred his pride to pieces.

But that is fine by him, he thinks. After all, not everyone deserves a second chance, and even less are pulled from Death by those who reap it.

_More than flashing lights and sound_


End file.
